The Reichenbach OneShots
by LadyInglorion
Summary: Prompts, ideas, character angst and feelings, alternate story lines... All this and more in this disjointed collection of fics that center around The Reichenbach Fall episode. One-shots will vary from chapter to chapter and will include our favorite ex-army doctor, consulting criminal, inept inspector, and of course... Sherlock Holmes! What's not to love?


**AN: First of all, I must say a huge THANK YOU to BlackBandit111 who was kind enough to be my lovely editor this time around. Secondly, as I must say with these things, I don't own any of the characters or the story, or anything unfortunately. Thirdly, ENJOY!**

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Real

The black pavement glistened ominously in the gloom of London's early morning darkness as Lestrade's police vehicle pulled away from the curb. The tires squeaked, spinning far too quickly for the rain-slicked street. John's exhausted eyes followed the taillights until they swerved around the corner toward the police station. He did not realize his hands were trembling until he removed them from the curtains and observed their slight quiver. Rocks were in the young doctor's throat and he struggled to swallow past them as he stepped away from the window, willing himself to think coherently, in a way that made sense.

"Should have gone with him," he said nervously, aware the timbre of his voice was unnaturally high. Anxiety crackled through his veins with such intensity he could physically not remain still. "People will think –"

"I don't _care_ what people think."

Sherlock's standard baritone rumbled through John's head, deep tympani drums resonating through a fog of scattered, out of tune violas and cellos. John did not look at him. It occurred to John that he ought to say or do something, something to ease the blistering tension in apartment 221B, something grounding, something _normal_ to counteract all the madness of the past twenty-four hours. But he just couldn't put his finger on what that was, or even if it would be appropriate.

"You'd care if people thought you were stupid," he pressed, adjusting his cuffs, fiddling with the buttons on his sweater. Anything to avoid those searching green eyes. "Or wrong."

"That would just make them stupid or wrong," Sherlock replied calmly. He did not even glance away from his computer screen. John's head snapped up, sudden anger, sharp as a scalpel, erupting in his stomach. It was cold, a violent rage, a chemical mixture of fear, apprehension, and anger, a time bomb whose fuse had just burnt out. The doctor's hands clenched into fists, gnawed off nails biting into the soft flesh of his palms.

"Sherlock, I don't want the world believing –" He stopped short as Sherlock's emerald eyes eased away from the monitor until they met his own sapphire blue. A gentle curiosity danced in the jade irises. _Why are you angry, John? Why are you angry?_ The eyes answered themselves. John knew Sherlock knew, possibly had even known before John himself.

"That I am what?" The question hung miserably in the air, a perfect cast waiting to be bitten upon. John unconsciously pressed his trembling hands into his pockets, flexing his sore knuckles. Sherlock's inquisitive expression persisted, unwavering. John's eyes darted to the floor, to his shoes, to Sherlock's pale, hollow face, to the window as a car rushed by.

"A fraud." He said the word with sullen finality. A flicker of emotion, possibly discomfort or uncertainty, flashed across Sherlock's face and was gone. The world's only consulting detective looked away, eyebrows knitting together as he twisted his head, snake-like, back and forth, encrypting this newest piece of code into his mental computer.

"You're worried they're right," he said finally, bony fingers gathering fistfuls of fabric from the legs of his trousers below the desk where he thought John could not see. Only the slightly raised eyebrow indicated his panicked disappointment. John swallowed hard, frowning unhappily. Yet there was something else in Sherlock's face, a glimmer of understanding. He was not angry; John had seen the man angry before, seen him concealing anger, and there was no trace of it in Sherlock's expression. Just the disappointment, and the mild curiosity that always graced his pale, chiseled features. "You're worried they're right about me." Sherlock's head dipped slightly as he focused on a miscellaneous object on the desk, a deep frown settling onto his soft pink lips. John could see the mental battle playing out across Sherlock's face. He was stuck somewhere between erupting into a vivid justification and glowing clarification of his merit or remaining silent to allow John to come to his own conclusions. He was settling for the latter.

"No," John said quickly, blinking, struggling to clear his head. "No."

"That's why you're so upset," Sherlock rumbled, voice spiking in agitation. "You can't even entertain the possibility they might be right, that you've been _taken in_ as well."

"No," John whispered, hands beginning to tremble once more. He found himself feeling astonishingly heavy, as if enormous weights were strapped to his limbs and to his chest. Every movement, every thought required intense concentration, yet they happened outside his awareness, as if he were watching a pantomime of himself from a distance. A tiny John Watson marionette, clicking his heels together on an oppressive stage with thousands of ogling spectators. He found the strings tied to his own fingers. He found he desperately wanted to stop the poor little puppet from dancing, because the audience was _laughing _at him, _laughing_ at him because he was no good, because he was wrong…

"Moriarty is playing with your mind, too!" echoed a voice in the theater. "Can't you _see_ _what's going on here_?" John jumped as Sherlock brought his hand down upon the oak desk, sending a teacup clattering to the floor. Sherlock's nostrils flared, his eyes blazed, and his chest heaved. His fingers clamped against the wood of the desk frantically. Rage, betrayal, desperation, pain, all these things sputtered across the fatigued man's face, emotions held carefully at bay for so long that the dam snapped, sending Sherlock swirling into a cascading waterfall of desperation. The pale lips parted and trembled. John took a step back, focusing on pushing air in and out of his lungs. He saw something in Sherlock he had never witnessed before: sadness. Pure, unadulterated, desperate sadness. Sherlock was violently sad, and it was not the sort of sadness that was fleeting or spontaneous. No, this was the type of sadness that stayed with you, a raw, desolate, creeping feeling that took weeks to mature and ripen before creeping out of your heart and into your head. This was the sort of sadness that ripped people apart, that tore gaps in sense and sanity that left you nothing more than a hard, morose shell of a man. This sadness was a disease, a disease that crept and crawled beneath the bed or hid in the closet during the daytime and emerged at night, a disease catalyzed by loneliness and loss of control. John hadn't realized how deeply the desolation, the rejection had worked its way into Sherlock's head, and he wondered furiously why it had taken him so long to see it. What had the doubt on his own behalf done to his friend? Certainly, John's own hesitation was the blow that which finally destroyed the stone. Sherlock's eyes appeared dim in the low light of 221B. He was seeking John's acceptance; he _needed_ John's acceptance. Else there would be no more playing this most dangerous game. If John spurned him, he would give up. Sherlock, proud, arrogant, boastful Sherlock, would leave the waltz he was dancing with Moriarty if John stopped believing in him. It suddenly dawned on John that Sherlock was no longer dancing for himself; he was dancing for John, dancing to keep his last and only glimmer of friendship unbroken. It no longer mattered whether Moriarty won or not; as long as the consulting criminal did not take John from him, Sherlock would continue to play.

"You're for real," John said gently, expression softening. Even if everything Sherlock had ever said to him were a lie, he would have confessed his faith in him because he loved him too much to see him in the thralls of such agony. They were best friends, and whom could you count on if not your best friend? Sherlock glared at him, shoulders shaking violently as he watched John's every movement. Edgily, like a cornered snake, he eased back into his seat beside his computer. The green eyes never left John's face.

"Right," he said slowly, passing a hand through his curly black hair. "One hundred percent." He returned to his usual catlike hunch before the monitor, eyes watching the screen intently. John scrutinized his friend closely, a small, mirthless smile leaking onto his face. Sherlock was playing it off as if John's approval was of no major consequence, but the change in demeanor was so blaringly evident John nearly laughed.

"No one could fake being such an annoying dick all the time," he said tenderly, a corner of his mouth spiking into the ghost of a smirk. Sherlock's eyebrows furrowed. He glanced toward John, running the conversation through his social algorithms, struggling to determine whether the latest comment was made in jest. His head tilted to the left, then to the right, and then skyward. A smile floated across Sherlock's face and he turned back to the computer screen, humming Gioachino Rossini's "La Gazza Ladra" to himself as John made his way to the kitchen to brew a kettle of tea.

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**AN: Well, thank you for reading! I certainly hoped you enjoyed it. Stay tuned for further updates, I'll be adding more one-shots centered around ****_The Reichenbach Fall_**** episode in due time. Please drop me a review, I do love getting reviews! ~LadyInglorion**


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